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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29721507">pale blue moons</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kennshin/pseuds/Kennshin'>Kennshin</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Final Fantasy XV</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Angst, Cop Noctis, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prompto Argentum Needs a Hug, Prostitute Prompto Argentum, Prostitution</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 19:01:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,448</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29721507</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kennshin/pseuds/Kennshin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>The roads are slush, his pockets empty, and Prompto doesn't care. Neither does Noctis, but apparently enough to at least scrape the ailing rogue off the street when the tide turns deadly</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gladiolus Amicitia/Ignis Scientia, Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello hello and welcome to this little bleak chunk of an AU</p><p>Some of the gang (Noct, Gladio, Iggy) have all been aged up to 25-ish in this fic<br/>There may be additional tags added, but no major archive warnings or triggering themes<br/>Otherwise nothing much to add, I've been wanting to write this fic for a while, but only got finger to keyboard recently T^T<br/>Thank you for reading, if you do ♡<br/></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s always a little burdensome, when the sum of all Noctis’s regrets hits him like a train on evenings like this. </p><p>It’s not like it’s a massive torrent or anything. Just tiny drops that eventually form a significant puddle he’ll have the misfortune of stepping in. He ends up thinking he might have been better off choosing another career path, because what is he even doing? It  doesn’t help that it’s in the middle of an apocalyptic winter that he spends in his patrol car, rubbing his fingers together and cursing the boredom and the stagnation of his life. </p><p>He feels trapped. Gladio and Iggy on the other hand seem content with running in the hamster wheel; work, eat, (fuck), sleep, repeat. They also seem more than content with knocking back a few in some seedy bar downtown every time a burnout waits around the corner. Noctis isn’t, but he always tags along nonetheless, to hear them crack the same lame jokes and conquer the same dancefloors only to wobble home at dawn, all giddy and unaware of the headache looming somewhere in the distance.</p><p>Gladio — since he claims to know something about life at this point — tells Noctis he needs to meet someone. He tells him to lighten up and to not be such a grumpy buzzkill and to do this and that. And maybe Noctis should do just that. Reciprocate when that decent-looking anonymous someone sends him longing glances from across the room and bites his lip a little too seductively.</p><p>“You’ve got that dark and mysterious vibe going on, Noct,” Gladio will hiccup on wet nights once he manages, once Iggy has removed his tongue from his mouth long enough to let him breathe. “Could easily score someone if you didn’t look so damn unapproachable and cold all the time.”</p><p>What he’s essentially saying is; <em> you just need to get laid. </em>As if it’s that simple. And in Gladios mind, maybe it is. But he’s one to talk when he’s already playing happy family with his beau. Watching him and Iggy make out like porn stars and mumble sickly sweet love confessions to each other makes Noctis queasy, just a little. Or maybe it’s actually jealousy he's feeling. Once the burden of being the third wheel grows too heavy he’ll quietly remove himself, to his quiet apartment where a microwaved meal and a cold bed with cold sheets await him. </p><p>But would a one night stand do anything? It doesn’t feel like enough to erase the indifference plaguing him as of late.</p><p>When he was younger the idea of becoming a police officer felt way more appealing. The idea that they’re small time local heroes was crammed down his throat, along with rights and wrongs and the sparkling notion that he could end up saving the world. </p><p>Lovely sentiment, but it didn’t exactly happen like that. Not that he has any such aspirations, not anymore. Even at the tender age of twenty-five, the years have rendered him a little more disillusioned. Sure, he might have saved a few lives. A handful of human lives and bucketfuls of cat lives, which — as Gladio likes to constantly remind him with his unfaltering optimism — is making a difference. </p><p>But even the bustling metropolis of Insomnia feels small lately. Maybe it’s because of the sudden harsh winter, but it feels small enough to be boring for a police officer that isn’t some fifty-something who just wants to flash his badge at speedsters once in a while. Noctis is lucky if he gets a call about a corner shop robbery or a minor drug bust once a week or so. </p><p>Maybe lucky is the wrong word to use. Probably, or, definitely.</p><p>This week he’s been scheduled for night patrols, which really just consist of driving in circles until he finally comes across something noteworthy. It’s nearing midnight, and eventually he does catch something, but it’s not at all noteworthy. A bunch of new-generation high schoolers smoke pot outside of a shop, their fingertips and lips having turned a ghastly blue from the icy wind. How they’ve even managed to light their blunts is a mystery, but Noctis waves the window down and bellows at them to get the <em> fuck </em> home, which they do; scuttling off like freightened bunnies into the night.</p><p>No one should be out in this godforsaken weather (Noctis included, but what can you do). Silhouettes move behind the frosted windows of the buildings he passes; citizens lighting up fireplaces and preparing hearty soup to keep them warm throughout the storm. </p><p>Surely, at some point, winter felt like a fairytale to him too, but it's lost its charms long ago. Snowflakes used to be little white miracles, all unique and special in their own right, that land on top of people’s noses and get stuck to children’s eyelashes. Winters used to be fond memories of snowmen and crunching through fresh snowfall before it turned into gray, dirty sludge.</p><p>Now snowflakes are just that. Solidified water that eventually melts and freezes in neverending cycles and nothing more. Or maybe he’s just not innocent enough to see the beauty in them anymore. Probably, definitely.</p><p>He drives without counting the streets now, because he sees them in his sleep, sees them in his past, and regrettably, his future. Without realizing it, his eyes flit back and forth across the dashboard, checking out the sidewalks and how deserted they are with minimal interest.</p><p>What he doesn’t fully realize is that he’s actually looking for someone.</p><p>There’s this scrawny prostitute he sees sometimes. Prompto Argentum. Noctis has pulled him into the station overnight on public intoxication and shoplifting charges every now and again, but it’s just a pretext. Beyond the formality, Noctis actually brings him into holding because the kid usually looks too bruised and starved to survive the night, and a minor strike here and there in exchange for a roof over his head helps both of them sleep.</p><p>Prompto is a strange phenomena. Noctis doesn’t know much about him, other than the fact he’s oddly bubbly and bright for someone who spends most nights sleeping on rough concrete and turning tricks for minimum pay. He always whips out that cheeky smile and scrunches his nose in excitement when Noctis rolls around the corner, as opposed to the other hollow-eyed youngsters he surrounds himself with, who seem to scatter like startled cats whenever they see him. The few times Noctis has arrested Prompto he’s been mostly cooperative. It kind of makes Noctis wonder how bad it could possibly be out here.</p><p>He hasn’t the slightest of clues where he might be right now. It’s been a while since he last caught him in passing, leaning against the tile wall outside the public library, a pair of shades resting across his high cheekbones and his face turned to the sun to soak up the warming rays. In the rearview mirror Noctis had seen him grab his camera — a battered little thing he sees him carry around sometimes — to snap a picture of the sky that happened to be unusually crisp that day. But that was a few weeks ago, and wherever he is, it best not be out in this inferno. Noctis just can’t be certain.</p><p>Snow starts falling diagonally as the wind picks up, and the blizzard the meteorologist promised a few days ago is here. It couldn’t have chosen a worse time, either, because the only worse thing than a stale existence Noctis can think of is a stale, snowed in existence spent inside his apartment. </p><p>The search for compromised young individuals is equally stale and fruitless. The kid might be anywhere, and Noctis isn't really all too sure why he's even looking.</p><p>Well, okay. He is, because deep down he knows. That despite the cold front and pessimistic approach to his own profession and life in general, he's always had an innate desire to help whomever may need it. </p><p>But that's the thing. Prompto never wants to be helped. Doesn't want to be ushered into a shelter for safekeeping, doesn’t want to visit hospitals when Noctis is certain he’s got an ear infection, only wants to state<em>; it's all good officer Caelum, it's all good, don't you worry about me, </em>and give him that crooked, carefree smile. And he's fleeting, like a ghost, often disappearing off Noctis’s radar entirely when he presses too hard about wanting to get him off the streets. He really has no idea what he does during those long weeks when there’s no trace of him.</p><p>The police radio buzzes in regular intervals, but it can do that all it wants. None of it sounds too urgent, and Noctis will admit that the search has taken a more acute turn, since the storm is picking up and turning lethal.</p><p>But eventually, his personal phone starts wailing. He could ignore it. He doesn't, which is a mistake. Gladio’s thundering baritone is enough to give him whiplash the second he answers.</p><p>"Where are you?!”</p><p>"I'm busy," Noctis announces, failing to hide his amplifying concern as he all but snaps at him. "Important mission, no time to talk, terribly sorry.”</p><p>While hearing Gladio draw a sharp breath inward and ask; <em> what the hell with, </em> he keeps vigilantly scanning his surroundings. There’s nothing at first, Gladio keeps yapping, something about shoveling snow, and Noctis pays him zero attention. But after another quick look out the dimmed window he slams the brakes so hard that it makes the car jerk on the slippery street, while simultaneously cursing in unison with Gladio.</p><p>"What the hell are you<em> doing? </em>We really need help with clearing the driveway to the station, it’s a mess and no cars can —"</p><p>"I'm <em> busy!” </em></p><p>Noctis registers a shriek in protest, followed by a growled <em> motherfuck— </em>just before the line goes dead. This might earn him an ass whooping later, but right now, he couldn't care less. Because sitting along the doorframe of an old, boarded up bakery, there’s a little bundle of a person that could easily be mistaken for a pile of trash. Without a second thought, Noctis pushes out of the car, leaving the keys in the ignition and the heating unit blasting, door wide open.</p><p>He’s found who he’s looking for, but with his heart knocking on his sternum, he fears he’s actually found a body.</p><p>He wishes he could say he’s one of those seasoned cops, jaded by years of unpleasant sights, and that witnessing this is child’s play. But truly, it’s nowhere close. Prompto has always been plagued by malnutrition as long as Noctis has known him; well, how could he not, considering his lifestyle. But now Noctis is paralyzed with fear, because he’s looking at a scarecrow covered in a thick layer of snow, with blonde tresses frozen and clumped together on his head, red-prickled knees peeking out of the ripped holes in his jeans. There’s hardly a thing to him.</p><p>Thankfully (and Noctis’s heart returns to its designated spot when he realizes) Prompto is alive. He can see teeny little puffs of vapor coming from his nose, and his chest shallowly rising and falling under the white blanket on top of him.</p><p>Noctis reaches for his flashlight and clicks it on, shining it directly in his face. The unflattering lighting accents the unhealthy grey tinge to his skin and the collection of faint freckles across his nose, but it also rouses him. He stirs slowly, obviously disoriented, before he blinks at him. Little snowflakes stick to his eyelashes, his eyes like dark slits when he tries his best to focus, and Noctis can’t even see the striking blue he knows is there. </p><p>“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty,” Noctis mutters, but there’s more care in his voice than he wants to admit. Prompto blinks a few times, a wicked shiver overtaking him as he zeroes in on the face in front of him. Edges turn firmer, painting a face he recognizes, eyes almost appearing bottomless in the glow of the streetlight and swirls of jet black hair peeking out under his cap.</p><p>“Officer Caelum,” he groans deliriously, attempting to heave himself up. It mostly fails. Noctis watches with rising disapproval. All shelters are at the other side of town, so frankly, he has no clue how he got lost all the way over here. He’s pleased to see that he’s at least wearing a pair of too-big mittens. It’s not enough to protect him from hypothermia or anything, but it’s a hell of a lot better than bare hands against snow.</p><p>“What are you doing sitting out here? Trying to get yourself killed?”</p><p>When there’s not even a hint of a reply and Prompto's head lolls forward again, Noctis pokes his shoulder and calls his name. But when he doesn’t react, he lightly slaps his cheek instead.</p><p>"Ow, <em> fucker</em>," Prompto drawls then, recoiling like a spooked jellyfish. "Just leave me alone.”</p><p>He doesn't have energy to add any real bite to it, but Noctis is still mystified. Prompto has always seemed like a level-headed individual, and they’re currently in the middle of a blizzard. The white flurries from earlier have very quickly become bigger and stickier and this is no place for a nap.</p><p>“Uh, no, it’s like snowmageddon out here, you need to —"</p><p>
  <em> “I said fuck off.” </em>
</p><p>This time, there is a whole lot of bite as he pops the 'f' with spit flying. Noctis briefly unfurls to standing, and really wonders, what makes Prompto think he’s in any position to act this hostile in his current predicament.</p><p>"I'd love to since you're so cranky for some reason, but you'll be facing death by hypothermia in that case. Is that what you want?"</p><p>Stiffly, since he currently feels dunked in a cryo bath, Prompto leans up to peer at the sky. In the span of seconds, his pale face blushes red, as a horde of snowflakes land and melt and create little canals down his cheeks. </p><p>"Might as well,” he snorts. Noctis isn’t used to hearing him so bitter. “Don't have much else on the agenda today. It's a beautiful day to go, don't need some bastard to mess it up.”</p><p>Noctis hunches down again, redirecting the scathing response he wanted to give into a mile-long sigh. His patience, often infinite, is running thin, and he wants to get going, not sit out here and try to convince citizens it’s a dumb idea to camp out.</p><p>"Since when are you this cynical?"</p><p>There must be some reason, other than the obvious; that he must be starved, that he’s coughing, that he’s exhausted. Then again, what else could Noctis expect. Maybe he's just insensitive. </p><p>Definitely. But it’s still worrying.</p><p>“Since I don't give a shit anymore,” Prompto declares, his teeth clattering ominously in his mouth. That's also worrying.</p><p>"Well,” Noctis ponders nonchalantly. “It’ll make for a pretty corpse, I'll give you that. Basically an icicle, no organs leaking out of your ass and no blown out brains to clean up."</p><p>"Great, so we're in agreement and you can leave, goodbye. Give your colleagues and this dump of a town my very best."</p><p>"I could do that, or...I could just arrest you for loitering."</p><p>Prompto turns to his side then, pushing out another disgusted snort and pulling his sad excuse for winter wear — a beige peacoat that’s seen better days — tighter around himself. Through the shudders racking his body, he somehow still finds the energy to mumble unintelligibly. Noctis can’t make out what, but it doesn’t matter. Fed up, he gets down to his level again, brushing the snow off him and yanking on his sleeve to get him moving. </p><p>"Let's go, come on. Stop being stubborn, and don't make me carry you, cause you know I will."</p><p>That low-key threat works. In an epiphany of compelled action, Noctis shrugs his own jacket off once Prompto is vertical, and drapes it around his frail shoulders. He even gets a tiny <em> thank you </em>for the effort.</p><p>“W-where are we going,” Prompto asks once he’s seated, well, more like half-laying, in the back of the car. They’re heading in the opposite direction of what he expected. Picture his confusion as the answer arrives — a gruff<em> my place </em> from the driver's seat. He’s about to retort, but his voice is swallowed by a wet cough that seems to rattle back and forth in his lungs and shake his entire frame. Noctis throws a critical glance over his shoulder, followed by a lukewarm bottle of water he digs from the glove compartment.</p><p>“Drink that. Tiny sips, or you'll shock your system.”</p><p>He hears him carefully and obediently sip it. The station would be the obvious place to bring him, or nah. Scratch that. A hospital is the right place for him, but the only reason Noctis hasn’t wheeled him into the emergency room (yet) is that he knows Prompto hates them with a burning passion. He found that out when he happened upon him once, after a failed confrontation with a customer ended in a dislocated shoulder for him. Despite the agony he was in, he still basically refused to go. Eventually he was promptly dragged there by an unamused Noctis and cuffed to the hospital bed, only to scream and thrash while the horrified medical worker popped his poor shoulder back into its socket. </p><p>Noctis never did find out where exactly the hatred for whitewashed examination rooms stemmed from, but it was a messy process he'd rather not sit through again.</p><p>So while the prostitute coughs and fades in and out of consciousness in the backseat of his cruiser, Noctis ends up bringing him to the closest destination for now. Home.</p><p>Home isn't very welcoming, to be honest. The furniture in his apartment is all dull, hardly a splash of color anywhere. It’s kind of like him, a bit dark, a bit mysterious, a bit <em> bland, </em> like Gladio claims. But right now he wishes he would have taken Iggy’s advice and bought those velvet pillows he gushed over last time he was lured into a shop with them. And maybe some blankets too, just so he could throw them over Prompto now. He mumbles nonsense as Noctis pulls him towards his couch, mitten-covered hands clinging half-heartedly to his shirt. Noctis only catches a few words as they fall from his blue-tinted lips, but without context they’re just little garbles of sound.</p><p>“Hey, kid? Prompto?” Noctis taps his cheek after he lays him down, two fingers digging into his neck in search of a pulse. It's there, but too weak. If he didn’t know any better, Noctis would have guessed him to be drunk or high. The film over his watery eyes has only grown thicker, and after a few more taps, he opens one single eye to stare at Noctis with a mean pout.</p><p><em> “What? </em>Stop bothering me."</p><p>Jesus. How is he in such a foul mood today? Well, Noctis can hardly blame him, what with being frozen solid, but still. There's no trace of the happy-go-lucky freckled cartoon character he knows him as.</p><p>"I'll stop bothering you when you're not in danger of keeling over anymore," he informs him flatly. "Sit up, come on."</p><p>He does, and Noctis can peel his soaked coat off him and throw it to the side. Left only in his sweatshirt he shivers, even in the comfortable room temperature, fingers running up to wipe strings of snot from his leaking nose.</p><p>Noctis can’t help but pay attention to his tattoos, now that he sees them in full HD in the bright lamplight. The little string of barbed wire and tiny star on one wrist, the ink vivid against the pale backdrop of his skin. And then there’s the one above his right wrist, a much more questionable creation.</p><p>Noctis has always wondered about the barcode ever since he saw it that first time he collected Prompto’s slender arms behind his back. If he really views himself as nothing but a product to be scanned and used, or if it’s just some self-deprecating joke. Or maybe it’s not that deep and he decided to get it on a drunken whim. </p><p>Best not to ask, right now at least.</p><p>"This place needs some color," Prompto blurts then, raking eyes over the stripped walls and half-empty brown bookcase opposite them. Noctis squints at him, not at all prepared to be given advice on interior design at the moment.</p><p>"Oh, really. Bet your place is so much grander?"</p><p>"I don’t have one as you know, well, unless you count the abandoned warehouse I sometimes crash at, so I’m exempt." He chews on his lip, some of his own color spilling back into his face as he ruminates and examines every single corner of Noctis's living room. "But if I did," he decides finally, "I’d paint the walls green or something. Or maybe peach. This is like a depressing wasteland."</p><p>Noctis just grumbles at him to stay put before he accidentally wrings his neck, and excuses himself for a moment, recalling the exact reason why he brought him here in the first place — the early onset of hypothermia. If he remembers correctly from Prompto’s files, he’s only twenty. And wouldn’t that be unfortunately early to kick the bucket, no matter how snarky he’s currently being.</p><p>He rifles through his closet, looking for anything fluffy and warm; wolly socks, sweatpants, layers of sweaters and a beanie. Basic first-aid training tickles the base of his brain as he recollects how to treat hypothermia. Layers are good.</p><p>But a nasty cough coming from the living room pulls him from his musings and he hurries back, folded clothes in tow. He curses when he sees the force of his heaving has tipped Prompto on his side, nails scratching at the cushion, because he can’t seem to catch his breath.</p><p>“Fucking hell,” Noctis mutters, sinking down next to him, to grab his shoulders and pull him into sitting. “Hey, hey, hey,” he commands him, as firmly as he can muster. "Need to breathe, look at me and breathe, don’t panic."</p><p>Prompto wheezes and gasps his way through the wet coughing fit, sounding like his lungs will explode and end up splattered all over the couch. But Noctis keeps an arm around him, steadying him and encouraging him to breathe with him, in and out, while his fingers softly circle the vertebrates on his back.</p><p>His voice is hard, but gentle enough to make Prompto remember why he’s so fond of Noctis in the first place, why he never cowers when his car circles around his corner. Why he feels a little tingly every time Noctis’s hands are on him, why he steals glances at him when he’s not looking and why he waves at him in passage, as if he’s greeting an old friend. It’s not like he’s about to tell him, but he’s enticed by his reserved but trust-inducing persona, and it’s important to him, the tiny bit of humanity that Noctis shows him. Because over the years, Prompto has kind of forgotten what it's like to have a friend. </p><p>Somehow, through it all, Prompto starts breathing normally again, or as normally as he can with the state of his health. He shudders, because without the distraction of his cough, he realizes how cold he actually is.</p><p>“That was nasty,” he croaks once he can. Noctis leans back into the cushions, equally relieved and bemused after that shitshow.</p><p>“Well, yeah, that’s what you get for huddling in street corners in sub zero degrees.“</p><p>Content with the steady breathing pattern, he turns around and grabs the clothes, pressing them into Prompto’s trembling hands.</p><p>“Here, change,” he encourages, even though Prompto only drops his moist gaze and then looks back at him like he requested something completely alien — but it’s okay, Noctis’s patience is thick again.</p><p>“Are all your brain cells frozen too? <em> Change. </em>You’ll feel better in dry clothes.” Noctis stands up, intending on giving him privacy. “I’ll go set the bedroom up.”</p><p>He gets another blank stare, like Noctis is a puzzle he can’t decipher. Why is this so complicated and awkward all of a sudden? </p><p>Noctis feels his eyes burning into his back all the way into the bedroom, and he really doesn’t know.</p><p>Remaining on the couch, confused and with lumps of unease growing within him, Prompto is exhausted. The past few weeks have been rougher on him than he’d ever dare to admit, with his sales coming in slower and slower. He feels caged by unbreakable habits, with no recollection of what a normal life is supposed to be like. What it's like to not feel the constant ache of his body as his soul bleeds out through the cracks in his skin and his smile looks more and more feigned.</p><p>Business has dwindled since he fell ill, because nobody wants a whore with a cough, someone who can’t even go halfway down a cock without wheezing until there’s no breath or energy left. As a result, Prompto's life has taken a turn for the worse, leaving him twirling aimlessly around the same streets and blowing the same uncaring guys for the same miniscule amount of money.</p><p>How he became entangled in such an awful game of life is beyond him. And if he has no energy to pour into a decent blowjob, he has even less to reflect on it, or figure out an escape route. Won’t, can’t.</p><p>He didn't expect this, either, but doesn't have the brain capacity to decide if something got lost in translation. He’s too weak, too tired and grateful for heating units and thick sweatpants and blankets draped across his freezing body to question anything right now, and set on not letting his mood soil their encounter when he's been met with nothing but hospitality. So he swiftly changes, swallows down another series of coughs, and finger-combs his hair, swiping it left and right but just giving up when it won't behave. He just hopes he looks somewhat presentable.</p><p>In the bedroom, the week-old sheets have been swapped to fresh ones when Prompto creeps inside, quietly like a feline. Noctis only manages a startled <em> what </em>before he sees the boy sink to his knees in front of him, hands fumbling at his fly and teeth gliding over chapped lips as he peers up. Noctis mouth forms a little “o”, but when it dawns on him what's actually happening, he’s mortified.</p><p>He instantly pulls Prompto to his feet and shoves him down on the edge of the bed, fingers closing around his arm a little more roughly than intended. Internally he winces at how his bones feel, so prominent, even beneath the thick sweater. </p><p>"What the <em> fuck </em> do you think you're doing?"</p><p>Glossy, bewildered eyes skid all over his face. Promptos’s thin brows bow inward with slight confusion, and out of a nervous habit, he begins picking at the sleeves of the sweater Noctis loaned him.</p><p>"I’m...giving you what you want?"</p><p>"And what on earth makes you think I want this? Firstly I'm a police officer, secondly you’re in no condition to suck any dicks, thirdly —"</p><p>Noctis's fingers spring up as he counts each argument on them, but on the would-be-third (<em>do you really think I'd treat you like this</em>) he just breaks off and stares at Prompto instead. What a colossal fuckup of a night this is turning out to be. Prompto still regards him with utter perplexion, like nobody has ever told him <em> no </em> before. </p><p>"But you — you took me here and not the station and you said you were setting up the bedroom —"</p><p><em> "Yeah, </em> setting up the bedroom for you to <em> sleep </em> in.”</p><p>Noctis shakes his head, fingers still maintaining their hold on Prompto’s arm and struggling not to shake him into lucidity too.</p><p><em> Sleep </em>in. </p><p>The little wires in Prompto’s head twist, end to end. He still doesn’t get it, his brain is too clogged up, but he shrinks under Noctis’s dark stare, unwavering and disarming and letting him know just how fucked up he is.</p><p>“And I took you here because you’re too stubborn for the hospital but you needed a <em> bed </em> or you were guaranteed to die out there,” Noctis spits, upset, but coming across as angry, because he doesn’t know how to express the storm surging inside his heart.</p><p>It’s no secret he's always found Prompto attractive, even with the occasional bruises and traces of handprints etched into his skin. They would never take anything away from him, but like this? The fact that Prompto would even think he’d want to take advantage of him like this, when he’s half-dead and coughing up rusty spikes and wet gravel, renders him completely speechless.</p><p>He jumps to his feet, scrubbing his face in pure frustration, clueless as to how exactly Prompto has gotten himself to this point.</p><p>"Are you really this deranged? Jesus, what's <em> wrong </em>with you?"</p><p>He really didn’t mean to almost scream. But he does, and it rattles up the walls and all the way into his own skull. But when the initial shock diminishes and he sees Prompto's eyes getting filmier, he realizes he just screwed up.  </p><p>Under literally any other circumstances, he'd found the rosy blush creeping onto his frost-tinged cheeks cute. Now he finds it heartbreaking. The tears spill, Prompto wraps his hands into sweater paws to catch them, and Noctis panics.</p><p>What an absolutely tactless idiot he is. Getting angry at a prostitute and making him cry because they’re not going to fuck.</p><p>"God damn it — no, <em> no</em>, I’m sorry,” he pleads as he drags himself towards him, extending a hand but cringing when he feels him flinch under his touch. At least he hasn’t run off yet, he just stays there and weeps. Noctis has a flashback then, to the only other time he's seen him cry; when he was cold-heartedly robbed of all his savings and his camera at gunpoint. Noctis arrived just in time to witness the ugly aftermath, featuring Prompto, down on his haunches on the sidewalk and snivelling away.</p><p>"Take it easy,” he tries again now, his voice going down several tones. “I didn't mean for it to come out like that, I’m just an ass.” He reaches forward again, to swipe the still-damp tendrils of hair out of his face, which he lets him, thankfully.</p><p>“Don’t cry, please,” he requests again, resorting to just patting him on the shoulder. As if that’s supposed to do anything.</p><p>It doesn’t, but somehow, it also seems to have an undesired effect. Prompto cries harder and Noctis curses his whole life and wonders if he’s just the bringer of bad luck and should remain a sad recluse forever.</p><p>“Hey, Prompto, listen to me — can you — hey,<em> calm down.</em>”</p><p>His cop voice sounds low and rough in his throat, and Prompto actually does. Stop, that is. He stills, on a shaky inhale, keeping his breaths hostage to avoid further hacking and stuttering. Once he has his attention, Noctis continues, notably softer. “You’ll hyperventilate. Breathe slowly and calm down.”</p><p>Prompto blinks away the last wet dollops and lets his lungs deflate, already feeling shame for crying just because he was yelled at. He feels pathetically small and exposed, but the raspy, subdued quality of Noctis's voice has always managed to calm him.</p><p>"I'm sorry, don't know what that was all about," he mutters, eyes trained on the bed covers. Embarrassment wells up from deep within him, propelling a soft sniffle. There's something inherently scary with showing himself so vulnerable, especially in front of Noctis.</p><p>"Don't say sorry, you did nothing wrong," Noctis’s assurance comes from next to him, and then, a request to sit tight a moment.</p><p>Over the pounding of his own heart and the rush of blood in his ears, Prompto hears his footsteps as he exits and re-enters. It doesn’t take long until a pot of strawberry yoghurt, a mini sandwich and a box of juice are positioned in his lap.</p><p>"Eat these, but <em> slowly</em>," Noctis warns. "I'm serious, you’ll get sick otherwise.”</p><p>It's late and Noctis has reduced their interaction to simple instructions, which Prompto follows without putting up a fight. He shoves it into his mouth and forgets to chew, and Noctis has to tell him to slow down, even though he knows he’s hungry — but he also notices worrying signs. Prompto's gaze wandering, intermittent glances cast at the door. </p><p>That’s no good.</p><p>Thus, after Prompto has polished off all of the food, Noctis still makes sure to barricade the exit, and point to the freshly made bed.</p><p>“Please go to sleep. It's late, you need to. I don't know what you're thinking right now, but you can't go back out there.”</p><p>He's ready to just wrestle him down in case he gets any funny ideas (which wouldn't take long, let's be honest) but thankfully there's no need. At the mention of sleep, it's like Prompto's body decides on the next course of action on his behalf. He sags and barely manages the short trip there, but Noctis helps him, sighing in relief when his head hits the pillow.</p><p>It’s so warm in Noctis’s bedroom, and Prompto is so weary and destroyed from neglect, that his illness and exhaustion overtakes him as soon as he’s tucked in. He might mumble a weepy, <em> thank you, Officer Caelum,</em> before falling prey to slumber. But he isn’t so sure.</p><p>Noctis remains next to the bed, watching him until his breaths level out, eyes fixed on the only visible part of him; tufts of blonde fanned out over the white pillowcase since he's hiked the covers that far up. Hopefully he’ll still be here in the morning, but it’s a gamble with this guy. </p><p>His phone dings after he’s carefully closed the door behind him, signaling the last text of the evening. Gladio has sent him a whole novel’s worth, but this is the first time he actually checks them, and he instantly regrets it.</p><p><b>Gladio:</b> Noct, you’re dead when I get a hold of you. I’ve been wanting to put someone in a headlock and you’re the chosen one, my friend. [1:35 AM]</p><p><b>Ignis: </b>He doesn’t mean it. It’s most inappropriate to weasel your way out of shoveling duties, though. [1:37 AM]</p><p><b>Gladio: </b>You’re lucky it’s Saturday tomorrow. [1:40 AM]</p><p>God, what a colossal fuck up of a night indeed.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi :)</p><p>Been a while, but here's chapter two of this story<br/>No special warnings, just one tag added ✨</p><p>Thank you for reading ♡</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>"You're a dick" </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Noctis briefly stops twirling the lid of his pen in his hand, raising his chin to the convict opposite him. But there’s no smile, heartstopping and sweet, like there usually is. Summer has left Ptompto with fresh collections of freckles upon his nose and sun-kissed, wind-swept hair, but under the sickly fluorescents of the stuffy interrogation room, he still manages to look like a ghost, his cloudy, blue stare fixed on Noctis. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I'm a dick? Why?" He clicks the pen, irritation bleeding through at having to sit here at such a late hour, again. "You know I’ll let you go soon, no need for melodrama.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Prompto just snorts in disgust, so Noctis focuses on the file in front of him again, splayed open on the metal table separating them. He knows Prompto’s file like the back of his hand, because of his devastating habit of helping him out whenever he‘s in need of rescuing. It's no leisurely read, and now, Noctis skims page after page detailing petty crime and bad decisions, until he reaches the snapshots of Prompto’s upper body, bruised to hell after an altercation with a violent customer some weeks prior. He has to avert his eyes, as his gut turns itself inside out.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> There’s nothing n it that he hasn’t seen before, but now, Prompto has suddenly decided to become a frequent patron of a convenience store in the outskirts of town, making a habit out of stealing handfuls of day-old sandwiches and rotisserie hot dogs whenever he feels like it. It’s the reason he’s sitting here, wasting Noctis’s time, at one AM in the morning. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “So, Mr Argentum. What's your issue exactly?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Noctis knits his hands on the table and waits, but he doesn't have to be kept on his toes for long. When Prompto is sour, he's guaranteed to tell you, and tonight is no different. He wiggles about testily, but when the cuffs give no leeway, he just settles for pouting and throwing himself back in the chair, the metal scraping against the floor and leaving unsightly scuff marks in its wake. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You didn’t have to throw away my hot dog,” he sulks, looking to be suffering at the mere memory. “So wasteful, you know there’s people starving on the streets while you stuff your fat ass with donuts all day, right?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Instead of feeling offended (because he hasn't touched those stale things in ages, Gladio always wolfs them down before he manages to snatch one), Noctis's hard expression softens. Ah. So that’s what this is about.  </em>
</p><p><em> When he collected Prompto just an hour ago </em> <em> — </em> <em> after receiving a call from the furious shop owner for the third time this month </em> <em> — </em> <em> he’d found him leaning against the wall in an alley nearby, scarfing down a rather sad and unappetizing-looking hotdog. He had only eaten a little less than half of it when Noctis, grouchy about having to make the trip yet again, slapped it out of his hand and whisked him away, a little more roughly than usual. Come to think of it, Prompto's face had shown such utter mortification as he watched it fall to its demise, that you’d think Noctis was actually the criminal. If anything, he looked more upset and close to tears at the sight of his food, wasted on the dirty ground, than at the fact he was being arrested. </em></p><p>
  <em> And maybe Noctis is wasteful. Most definitely. It was only yesterday he chucked an apple into the trash, just because it was a little too bruised for his taste. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Okay, yeah, sorry about that,” he admits humbly. “But why do you raid that little shithole? I’ve told you a million times." Pressing his fingertips together, he traps Prompto with his gaze, stressing each word like the intended receiver is somehow slow (which Noctis knows he isn't, in fact, Prompto is rather clever.) "Stop ransacking seedy corner shops and causing trouble, go to the soup kitchen, they’ll feed you.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em> But what Noctis is still unaware of is that Prompto, the little devil, intentionally lands himself in trouble just to cross paths with Officer Caelum, the only one who seems to treat him like a person, as opposed to a walking, disease-ridden pest. But Noctis can't know that. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Instead, he feigns indifference, and grumbles something he’s asked to repeat, until it creates a full, comprehensible sentence:  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He's banned from the soup kitchen.  </em>
</p><p><em> Mystified, Noctis leans back in his chair, feeling his bed beckon him all the way from home, and a nasty headache pounding like a war drum on his temples. </em> <em><br/>
</em></p><p><em> “How can you be banned from </em> <em> — goodness sakes, </em><em>nevermind. Is there even a point in asking?” </em></p><p>
  <em> "Because it was just stupid, I got into a fight with someone, and maybe I threw my macaroni and cheese at them, but it wasn’t my fault, I swear.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Can't imagine how that fight might have started," Noctis remarks, failing to hide his amusement, but the opportunity to self-reflect is lost on Prompto. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Opening the file again, he reads the same records over in hopes of finding the answers Prompto won't give him. He considers backtracking on the promise to release him into the wild, cringing as he imagines him running off into the unknown again. While no swanky suite at the Citadel, holding cell K10 — aka Prompto’s other home — would serve him for the night. Noctis tries not to think about where his route would continue after this. The late, balmy summer night would pose no threat to him even if he spent it under a starry sky, but he might be lured onto unsafe side streets leading into dingy motel rooms which he’d leave at dawn, with cracked knees and hard-earned notes in his pockets, and then what? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It just continues, like the earth spins, just like Noctis scours the same neighborhoods and grimaces at the same old bitter paper-cup-coffee, day in and day out.  </em>
</p><p><em> While thinking about how to break this vicious cycle, he doesn't look up once, because if he did, he’d be in danger of just apologizing for the inconvenience and bring Prompto home like a stray puppy. And that — no matter how much his heart begs and weeps and desires it </em> <em> — </em> <em> would be most inappropriate.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Through his musings he can hear Prompto wiggle in his chair, growing more and more restless about the current arrangement. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You didn’t have to arrest me anyway, who cares about some sweaty hot dog? The guy has got loads of them.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Noctis isn’t quite sure if he’s serious or not, but then again, he never is. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “That’s not how crimes work.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Maybe it should be,” Prompto comments, flippantly as ever, a wicked glint playing in his striking ocean eyes. “Maybe you just like to shove me against car doors, and that's why you care about some dumb robbery." He lets his toothy smile show, delighted to succeed in riling Noctis up. "If you want to manhandle me, there's other ways, you know.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Noctis glares at him, all his sympathy reservoirs rapidly emptying. Maybe he should just throw the kid in his accommodation for the night with some blankets and a water bottle, and be done with it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Do you ever just shut up? Might be an idea.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> As if answering the question for him, Prompto’s stomach rumbles tersely, sounding like a whole firing squad in the stifling silence that surrounds them. </em>
</p><p><em> Noctis yields with a sigh (since he might just feel a tad guilty), and digs around his pockets for cash, somewhat disgruntled, but putting up a front entirely. He has a soft spot </em> <em> — </em> <em> well, more like a whole squishy, liquidated limb </em> <em> — </em> <em> for Prompto, and he’s more than happy doing this for him — but Prompto can’t know that. </em></p><p>
  <em> “What do you want?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Prompto’s spirits light up considerably, since he’s aware that there's a vending machine around the corner and that that’s exactly where Noctis is heading, since he’s successfully defrosted the little clump of ice and gravel he calls a heart, again.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> “The unhealthiest crap you can find, thanks.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Maybe if he hadn’t cracked inappropriate jokes and acted like an absolute pain for the past fifteen minutes, Noctis might have fulfilled that request. Prompto whines in pure, high-pitched disappointment as a banana, an apple and a dry hummus sandwich are tossed on the table, and Noctis crouches to pull the cuffs from his bony wrists. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Told you,” comes Prompto’s verdict then, as he ignores Noctis’s eye roll and sinks pointy canines into the apple. "You're a dick." </em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>When the little gem of a flashback resurfaces and inevitably tugs the corners of Noctis’s mouth upward, Prompto is still hidden away in his bedroom, completely dead to the world. Despite the circumstances, he recalls him looking much healthier back then, cheeks not as sunken, eyes still alight with mischief.</p><p>He leans heavily over the kitchen counter, head hanging over the sink as he stares at the empty bowls, swimming in murky, swirling water. God knows how often Noctis has inadvertently withheld food from Prompto, just like that time he so callously robbed him of his hot dog without a second’s thought. However many times, they weigh on his conscience now, but when he wakes, Noctis decides, he’ll prepare him something to make up for all those times. </p><p>Something easy on the stomach, yet filling and nutrient-heavy.</p><p>A night on the couch didn’t do Noctis’s back any favors, and if it wasn’t for Prompto’s gray, crumpled sweatshirt and damp ripped jeans tossed over the armrest, he just might have written yesterday off as some vivid fever dream. In order to make sure he isn't unknowingly housing a corpse, he makes sure to occasionally check for signs of life in his bedroom. Truly, Prompto's seemingly lifeless body might have him fooled. Nothing but a few shaggy blonde wisps are visible, but by hiking the covers down and studying the shallow rise and fall of his chest and twitch of his lashes, Noctis infers he is, at the very least, still alive.</p><p>With the snow and sleet coming down sideways, he’s almost forgotten the outside world exists, but he’s reminded as it’s nearing evening and the sky has darkened to an ungodly shade of black. The mounted clock on the wall, an ugly, generic thing from the local warehouse, turns with an eerie creak, joining the doorbell in disrupting the stillness in Noctis’s mind. He launches off the couch, brows furrowing and eyes plastered on the door. As far as he knows, he’s not expecting anyone.</p><p>It rings, not once, not twice, but three times in quick succession, followed by a growled <em> open up! </em> that sounds too muffled to really be recognizable.</p><p>Very carefully, he pushes the handle down, but whomever is on the other side rips it open before he can peek into the corridor. At first he has no idea what he’s looking at <em> — </em> a hungry yeti with some vendetta to kill him, perhaps, considering the way the dark-clad creature towers over him before it stomps past. But once the shock has evaporated, the wet tendrils of snow are brushed off onto the hallway rug, and it finally speaks, he realizes it’s no such thing. It’s Gladio, dressed in a thick, padded winter coat and mittens the size of a bear’s paw.</p><p>“Hey there, I'm here to see a gangly, grumpy dude about a shovel.”</p><p>“Ow, ow, okay<em>, I get it</em>, it took ages to clear the driveway <em> — </em>”</p><p>“Five damn hours,” Gladio announces theatrically, but after Noctis squirms and repeats that he<em> fully understands </em>the consequences of yesterday’s disappearance, the fingers wired into his collar loosen their grip somewhat. </p><p>“Relax, I won’t rearrange you into a human foot stool, yet,” he promises after Noctis has leapt into safety behind the coffee table, letting it act as a barrier between them. “Iggy made me stop by cause you’re not answering our texts and you didn’t even show up to clock out of work yesterday, so what’s up?”</p><p><em> Noctis's phone. </em> It lays stranded somewhere unknown, probably wedged between the couch cushions and most likely drained of all battery, too. Even a hermit of Noctis’s caliber might realize how a whole day’s radio silence would be cause for concern, so he mutters something offhanded about not checking it, which happens all the time, anyway. Gladio <em> mmhm’s </em> and <em> hmm’s </em>in response, while trampling around and shaking off the last lumps of excess snow onto Noctis’s hardwood floors.</p><p>“This blizzard ruined my whole weekend, not even gyms are open, can you picture my devastation?”</p><p>"Quite horrifying.”</p><p>"My thoughts precisely. On another note, Iggy and I have been playing housewife all day, since there’s nothing else to do. We made you chicken soup, well <em> — </em> Iggy made it, mostly."</p><p>A container that Noctis didn’t notice until now is conjured out of nowhere and shoved into his hands. After a quick look, he can conclude it very much looks like Iggy’s handiwork, the mouth-watering, rich smell quickly infusing his entire living room. If he knows Iggy’s culinary skills right, it’ll taste divine as well. The perfect meal to feed Prompto once he rouses, he realizes, scrumptious and hearty.</p><p><em> Prompto. </em> </p><p>At the internal mention of his name, Noctis falters for a moment, at a loss of how to even begin explaining why an addled prostitute is currently tucked away in his bedroom. He wrings his hands and stares holes in the rug as he searches for the right words, the sight making genuine worry slowly creep onto Gladio’s face.</p><p>"What's up, Noct, really? Are you depressed or something?” He tilts his head like a curious dog, as if he somehow would be able to diagnose him by simply scanning him up and down. He finds nothing out of the ordinary, anyway, except traces of bad sleep and neglect in his red-ringed eyes and the faint stubble decorating his chin. “You’re showing alarming signs lately, you know. Communicating less, spending more time than usual brooding, declining drinks at the club, Iggy and I are starting to get <em> — </em>”</p><p>The sentence is left unfinished, his baritone dying out and amber eyes zeroing in on something over Noctis’s shoulder. He swings around, and sees the door to the bedroom wide open, and Prompto, regarding them warily as he creeps along the wall, much like a spider on the prowl.</p><p>"...worried."</p><p>The storm whips around them and presses its nose against the window panes, witnessing Gladio’s and Prompto’s silent staredown. Gladio recovers first, placing a nonchalant hand on his hip and thinking that he might have seen this coming. There’s no need for explanations, really. Prompto’s disheveled appearance, coupled with the weather, and Noctis’s flickering eyes, filled with much more affection and concern than he’s given credit for, are more than enough to piece the puzzle together.</p><p>"Hey sunshine, nice weather, huh?”</p><p>Prompto spares him another few second’s worth of nothing, before the door to Noctis’s bedroom is slammed, and he’s gone as quickly as he emerged.</p><p>“Well, look who it is,” Gladio says chipperly, too familiar with Prompto's distaste for him by now to let such lukewarm greetings faze him. “He looked equally happy to see me as always. Care to explain?”</p><p>For reasons unbeknownst to Noctis, Prompto has always had an issue with Gladio. He behaves around him like a feral, skittish animal would, always shifty-eyed and reluctant whenever he’s the one to pick him up. It might just be the sheer size of him that puts Prompto off, the knowledge he could snap his bones in half with a mere twist of his fingers. He needn't worry, because Gladio is the gentlest of handlers, never once retorting to excessive use of force or coercion <em> — </em> but as with most things, the real reason for Prompto’s aversion remains veiled in shadow. Noctis has only received avoidant answers the times he’s asked, such as; <em> he reminds me of someone, </em> which sounds chillingly sinister.</p><p>“That’s what I was busy with yesterday, I found him on in the edge of town, freezing and halfway to hypothermia,” Noctis clarifies with a weary sigh, not that clarification is really needed, and adds, in afterthought; "He would have died out there, so...I took him here.”</p><p>“Of course you did,” Gladio hums, not having the slightest of intentions to suggest Noctis acted out of protocol. “I totally get it, Noct.”</p><p>Unable to suppress a silly little smile, he earns himself a glare that clearly states; <em> not a word, </em> from a bemused Noctis, who has an ability to look quite intimidating when he wants.</p><p>“Anyway, I should really get going then, so sunshine dares come out of hiding,” he says, before he starts teasing Noctis too much for being a big softie, and pulls the bear-sized mittens on in preparation to brave the unforgiving landscape once more. “Enjoy the soup, and uh...give some to Prompto, answer your phone, we’ll talk later, and...maybe seeing as he's here, you could finally talk him into changing career, you know? Help him onto his feet. There has to be some other options for a twenty-year old kid, right?" </p><p>Noctis grunts affirmatively as he waves Gladio off, and spends a few minutes staring blankly at his dumb, ticking friend on the wall, that offers him no advice regarding what he should do next.</p><p>Feed Prompto. One thing at a time.</p><p>He ladles the soup into a bowl, but when he enters the living room again, Prompto surprises him by making an appearance. Not only that, but the difference to earlier is palpable. He strides to the couch immediately, making quick work of grabbing his rags and pulling the damp sweatshirt over the one Noctis loaned him, shivering as the wet cuffs touch his bare wrists.</p><p>Noctis stares at him dumbly from afar for about five seconds, bowl still in hand, before he sets it down on the living room table, and intervenes. </p><p>“Uh, what are you doing?”</p><p>“Was he here to arrest me?”</p><p>Prompto’s sleep-laden, raspy voice jarrs Noctis, both due to the abrupt question, and because he has never heard the younger sound quite so panicked before. Not even that time he suffered a dislocated shoulder and had his precious camera stolen, not even then.</p><p>“Why would he be here to arrest you?” Noctis’s eyes narrow at the peculiar behavior, alarm bells instantly sounding at the back of his skull. “Did you do something?”</p><p>“No, no, just as you said yesterday, uh, loitering,” Prompto says hastily, eyes dropping to the rug as he pulls the tattered beanie over his messy bedhead. “Anyway, I <em> — </em>I really appreciate you lending me your bed, I can't even begin to thank you, but I should probably be on my way. I guess the storm has cleared."</p><p>As he says it, the wind crashes against the living room window like violent waves against rocks, refuting that outlandish statement entirely. Noctis can’t quite believe him as he watches him quickly rake up his belongings from the floor, which isn’t a lot, anyway, just his wallet and a tiny notebook that fell from his pocket at some point.</p><p>“Hold on a second, no it hasn't, and no you shouldn’t. You just woke after being out cold all day, so can we sit down a moment?”</p><p>Noctis blocks his route to the hallway, one finger pointed directly at the couch, which happens to be so conveniently within reach, and so <em> soft</em>, despite being an uninspiring shade of brown. Surely Noctis’s apartment is preferable to the biting cold of the outdoors at the moment, but apparently not according to Prompto, who makes fruitless attempts at slithering past him.</p><p><em> "No, </em> for christ’s sake, are you seeing this?” Noctis’s tone rises by the second, unusually shrill even in his own ears as he points the finger to the window instead, the other hand tugging on Prompto’s sweater sleeve. "Where will you go? It’s like apocalypse now out there, you’ll be a goner in seconds."</p><p>Prompto turns his swollen gaze to the frost-tinted glass, sniffling into the fold of his shirt, the wires in his brain twisting and turning. "It’s fine, don't worry about it, and thanks for everything, really," he decides finally, with an awful, wet sniff.</p><p>Noctis stares at him, wondering how he just managed to sell the idea to him further when the intention was the opposite. Miraculously, the cough that plagued Prompto yesterday seems to be gone, but if he plans on plowing through the storm scarcely clothed, it's only a matter of time before it makes a comeback. Noctis supposes he really does have a death wish, or alternatively, he’s still too delirious to be able to make informed decisions.</p><p>He decides to just play it foul. Prompto’s bundled up coat spent the night on the hat shelf, and while its owner wipes his leaking nose and drags his doc martens on, Noctis rips it down, clutching it tightly in his arms. </p><p>“Okay, off you go. But you’re not getting your coat, or your mittens.”</p><p>Prompto blinks sleepily and him from a few feet away, bewilderment quickly morphing into annoyance.</p><p>“Holding a homeless person's clothes hostage? Are you a sadist?”<br/>
<br/>
“Yes.”</p><p>“Fine. Later.”</p><p>Noctis’s little ploy fails. He’s left standing, aghast, as Prompto weasels past him and out of the door. He curses, dropping the bundle of fabric to chase him through the corridor and three floors down, finding that he’s already managed to make it onto the street by then.</p><p>
  <em>“Prompto!”</em>
</p><p>Tall piles of snow frame the roads, looking like gigantic mountains of cottage cheese in the yellow glow of the streetlights. Noctis shivers as he wades through the white blankets covering the sidewalk, hands forming a megaphone over his mouth to call Prompto’s name again. He’s fully ready to chase him down <em> — </em> but as it turns out, he doesn’t have to run very far. Prompto yelps as the wind latches onto him, and yanks, causing him to slip and faceplant into one of the fluffy piles.</p><p>Noctis curses everyone and their mom a second time. He scurries to a stop, grabs onto Prompto’s flailing limbs, and tries his best to jostle him into standing, but it mostly fails. He ends up on all fours, panting and shivering in the snow, while Noctis’s agitation reaches unforeseen heights.</p><p>“Are you dumb? What did you do that for?!”</p><p>“I don’t know, I just <em> — </em> <em> ow, </em> I’m c-cold <em> — </em>”</p><p>“Of course you’re <em> cold</em>, I told you, it’s disgusting out here. Come on, jesus.”</p><p>Noctis makes his threat from yesterday a reality. He wraps arms around Prompto's waist and carries him off without a word, while he cries about snow running down his neck and his sweatpants. Once they’re safely inside, Noctis ignores the wet puddles forming on the rug as he sets him down, and does the only logical thing he can think of. He starts pulling layer after layer of soaked shirts off him, caring little about the fact Prompto whines meekly in protest, or that his hair gets all tangled as the clothing is worked over his head. Noctis grumbles like an old man, and wonders what he <em>expected,</em> really.</p><p>"You'll get pneumonia at this rate, what are you <em>thinking,</em> running outside barely clothed?"</p><p>It’s not until Prompto stands before him without a single thread on his upper body, abashed and with a flush spreading all the way to his chest, that Noctis halts himself.</p><p>“I <em> — </em>” </p><p>The walls creak, sounding like they’re a second from combusting from the wind. But Noctis and Prompto have entered their own, secluded bubble, and remain immune to it.</p><p>The delicate dips and slopes of Prompto's body bid Noctis's gaze as he retains a loose hold of his upper arm, treating the limb like the finest, thinnest porcelain. Very close to where his fingers grasp, a trail of freckles start and end just below his collar bones, scattered like splashes of ink over his skin. </p><p>Despite being a little starved, a little wilted, he reminds Noctis of a woodland elf, or some other type of ethereal being. He can’t recall ever laying eyes on anyone prettier, or recall his heart fluttering about so wildly, ever before.</p><p>“I'm really sorry,” he stutters once he regains his wits, and let’s go of Prompto, fearing he’s unintentionally violated him. “I didn’t mean to just...undress you like that, without asking, I just wanted to get you out of the wet clothes."</p><p>“It’s okay, really,” Prompto says timidly, overwhelmed and unused to feeling so hot, even when he’s all bared and trembling in room temperature. Noctis regards the sickly, yellowing welts on his rib cage with dismay, leftovers of rough knuckles, or perhaps, steel-toed boots. He wonders who might have left such foul marks on Prompto’s body; <em>Prompto,</em> who’s such a gentle soul.</p><p>“Do these hurt?”</p><p>He lets a finger ghost over them, barely grazing him, but a crackle of electricity travels up Prompto's spine nonetheless. He wants to ask, <em> please touch me more, </em> but all he does is shake his head and claim that it’s <em> fine</em>, Officer Caelum, <em> they’re not that bad. </em> They look like pools of toxic algae against the near-white backdrop of his skin, the very color scheme contradicting the whispered words, but Noctis lets it go.</p><p>"Okay,” he says, withdrawing his hand to awkwardly scratch at his neck, creating some distance between them. “But can you just stay put, for once? Wait, I’ll get you some towels and clean clothes, and then you can have a shower, you probably want one."</p><p>Prompto is quite thankful for the rare opportunity. He quickly slinks into the bathroom equipped with a set of fresh clothes and towels, leaving Noctis to bite his lip and regroup.</p><p>What a mess.</p><p>The sprinkling water carries all the way from the bathroom through the thin walls, mingling with the storm outside, and Noctis does his utmost not to let his mind stray to inappropriate places. The cooling soup waits patiently on the coffee table where he left it, ready for reheating, and Prompto’s beige peacoat lays in a heap by the front door. Noctis collects it, making sure to handle it with more care than yesterday. </p><p>Its glory days are long gone, but it’s by no means a bad coat; the wool is fine despite being threadbare, the design timeless. Prompto must have found it in a clearance corner, or in a second hand shop, he reckons, while he smooths out the wrinkles and straightens out the collar.</p><p>But as he runs the pads of his fingers over one of the pockets, there is a faint rustling. Frowning, Noctis shoves a hand into it, already pretty much certain of what he might find, but feeling his entire being shatter as he retracts it, nonetheless.</p><p>Prompto tentatively steps out of the bathroom ten seconds later. He's dressed in the navy blue sweater Noctis left for him <em>—</em> the softest, nicest one he owns <em>— </em>hair still towel-damp, but the conversational pleasantries he’d prepared remain unuttered. He sees Noctis, his face deadpan and his fingers tightening around the little empty bag he’s found, until it’s crushed in his palm. He unclenches his fist again, to hold it up to show Prompto, lips pursing at the remnants of white powder dusting his fingertips.</p><p>"What's this?"</p><p>A few seconds pass, until Prompto hacks out a feeble<em> nothing, </em> and backs off instantly, to retreat into the only safe haven he trusts to sustain him; Noctis’s bedroom. </p><p>Well.</p><p>At least he didn’t head off in the other direction, Noctis thinks passively, as he watches him flee.</p><p>The same old clock ticks loudly, a never-ending pulse in his ears, while his cold living room turns into a perilous labyrinth full of untrustworthy drug sellers and lurking dangers. <em>It’s not that bad, </em> he reasons with himself, justifying Prompto’s actions before he even has a chance to do it himself. It’s not that bad, because at least he didn’t see any track marks, at least it might <em> only </em>be coke, or something similar. At least Prompto isn’t laying passed out somewhere, like the skeletal, hollow-eyed figures Noctis stumbles upon sometimes, in filthy apartments with needles poking out of their arms.</p><p>But it’s still bad. It’s been bad for a while, and Prompto is a junkie, on top of everything.</p><p>This knowledge alone flips him left, right and center, but sobs coming from the bedroom pulls him into instinctive action. Prompto sits on the bed, freshly washed cheeks stained with an ocean’s worth of tears. Noctis lingers in the doorway, trying to calm his impending temper, even though his insides scream and riot at him to grab Prompto by the collar and shake him until he stops this nonsense.</p><p>“What was in it?”</p><p>"Does it matter? I’m <em> sorry," </em>Prompto says with an undoubtedly frightened whimper, his heart throbbing painfully. <em> If he’d just thrown that dumb bag away </em> <em> — </em> if only. </p><p>Without another word, Noctis sinks down, desperate to find out when exactly Prompto fell into this death trap. He knows his file, read it so many times one would think it's a brilliant novel, knows he's an orphan, that the odds are against him and that he has no one, no one there to stop him from succumbing to such vile temptresses. But also, he knows for a fact that ever since Prompto started being a nuisance to the police, he has never been charged with possession of an illegal substance, or even possession of paraphernalia. </p><p>But more importantly, Noctis wonders how this has managed to skip by him. He realizes, that he hasn’t seen Prompto hang around his usual go-to places in some time, and this might be why, but still. Prompto <em>—</em> with his flaxen hair and carefree attitude and tiny suns sprinkled upon his cheeks <em>—</em> doesn't <em> do </em> this.</p><p>“So this is why you were about to run off, worried I'd discover your little habit? Is this where you disappear when you go MIA, when I don't see you for weeks, you're laying blacked out in some drug den?”</p><p>Prompto wavers, horrified and mortified. "It's <em> — </em> it's not like that<em>."</em></p><p>It’s a pitiful whine, because Noctis’s voice sounds so unlike before, like a sizzling blade reopening wounds he tries to close, but never quite succeeds in.</p><p>“How come you never told me about it,” Noctis grits, rendering Prompto speechless for a moment. And he’s aware it’s a laughable inquiry, but it feels almost like a betrayal, because Prompto always waves at Noctis, always offers him the brightest of smiles, always engages him in chit chat. <em>Trusts him</em>, Noctis thinks bitterly, until the fog clears somewhat. </p><p>What Prompto has is a sad, very bleak excuse of an existence, so really, is it anger Noctis is feeling, or is it guilt? </p><p>He should have tested him for drugs.</p><p>Regret rips at Prompto likewise, as he sees the frown lines in Noctis face deepening. Not even thirty minutes ago, he harbored a little innocent wish that maybe, he might be allowed to touch Noctis, too. Run his fingers over the smooth panes of his face,  find out the exact texture of his silky, jet-black hair and the hue of his eyes, because as per his observation, they can look like swirling whirlpools, or muddy swamps, depending on the light.</p><p>But now, Noctis might not want him anymore, if he ever did, no longer. Prompto’s mind is a wicked trickster when withdrawal sets in, difficult to contain, his body a canvas for others to ruin, unlovable and unattractive.</p><p>
  <em> Throw it away, all of it, undo it all.</em>
</p><p>His breaths quicken, thoughts growing even murkier, lethal vines circling his wrists and yanking him underwater. </p><p>“I’m really sorry,” he keeps repeating over and over, and Noctis is struck with a pressing need to hold him, but Prompto flinches whenever he moves. It’s worrying, Noctis thinks, and he knows he’s not the most <em> approachable </em> of individuals, but he’d hate to think that Prompto is afraid of him, for whatever reason. He wonders, with his stomach twisting, if the aversion to quick movements is a learnt behavior.</p><p>"Prompto," he says quietly, and with his academy training being second nature, he he instinctively raises his hands so they’re in Prompto’s field of vision. “Don't have to be scared of me. You're safe here, and things will be okay."</p><p>Prompto peers at him sideways under wet, blonde bangs, head hanging low. “What are you talking about? It’s not <em>okay</em>. Nothing is okay.”</p><p>Noctis assures him, that it will be. Fuck the rules, he decides, determined to cut whatever real or imagined barrier that exists between them, and leave the roles of perpetrator and offender behind, no matter how awkwardly and clumsily he behaves around Prompto <em>— </em>because it feels right. He repositions himself on the bed so he is directly beside him, and circles one arm after the other around the younger’s back, letting them rest lightly atop his tummy, feeling it twitch beneath the thick layers of fabric.</p><p>“It’s <em>okay</em>,” Noctis mumbles again, placing his chin in the nape of his neck. "You know, maybe not yet. But it will be."</p><p>Prompto vocalizes nothing, but exhales heavily as he settles in his arms, spine curving against his chest. The whirr of the heater suddenly seems deafeningly loud, and Noctis realizes that he is actually, legitimately holding Prompto, for the first time ever. They appear to fit surprisingly well together, he finds himself thinking, too <em> — </em> and also, that he doesn’t quite want to let go.</p><p>They fall silent, a few of Prompto’s fingers absently playing with Noctis’s slightly thicker, longer ones as they breathe in sync. Neither one of them dares to speak, in fear of breaking the sacred moment of unexpected intimacy, until they inevitably, and regrettably, drift apart, and Noctis has to re-address the current issue at hand.</p><p>“Prompto, listen. Hate to say this, but if you’re caught for possession, that’ll be it. It won't just be petty theft and public intoxication and a holding cell anymore, you'll be <em> charged, </em> and you’ll most likely serve time."</p><p>Prompto focuses flighty, teary eyes on him as he draws knees up to his chest, his voice hardening. "It's not your business anyway, what I do —" </p><p>“Really, isn’t it? You realize who you’re talking to, right?" Noctis sighs gruffly and hands him some  tissues from the nightstand drawer, clueless what to make of this petulant resistance. "Why are you doing all this, sucking off guys who just leave you battered and messing around with this stuff? You can have something <em>better</em> than this, you know."</p><p>However well-meant, the sentiment has an adverse effect, since Prompto is fighting not only his tears, but Noctis’s judgement, as well. </p><p>"You think you know anything about me<em>,</em>” he spits out, words turning to sludge in his mouth as his throat burns and burns. “Just cause you throw me in a cell or wheel me off to shelters now and then, cause you've read some file full of shit, you think I have a choice, that I <em> want </em> to <em>—</em> " He reins himself in, realizing he’s sitting in Noctis’s bedroom on borrowed time, and forces down a sob, before choking out; "You think you know me?"</p><p>It’s not challenging anymore. He sounds like he’s given up on everything, on <em> life</em>, and Noctis stares at his beaten form so intently his eyes start to water.</p><p>Noctis always wraps himself up in the present, sometimes the future, but mostly, he draws on what is happening now. It’s all that really matters, anyway <em> — </em> he doesn’t bother himself with dwelling in the past. But he’s forgotten, much due to the sparkling, carefree exterior that Prompto presents, that underneath all the grime and trauma, there is an entire person to him. Not just now, or five minutes from now — but an entire person with a childhood, perhaps a someone who was genuinely happy once. </p><p>Prompto didn't just vaporize on the corner of the street one day; something unfortunate led him here, something Noctis doesn’t know the first thing about.</p><p>"I know I don't,” he agrees, and hates the fact, all the wasted opportunities. “But I want to know you."</p><p>Prompto lifts his head from the little cavity his body has created, terrified of rejection. He fists the bed covers, thinking that it was foolish of him, to grow accustomed to clean sheets, only to feel the loss thereof once he’s driven out. </p><p>"I don't do it anymore."</p><p>Noctis runs fingers over his stubble, clearly putting that claim through its paces. And who can blame him, really.</p><p>"It's why I was so…” Prompto starts, but dwindles uselessly, turning his face away. “Nevermind, you won't believe me anyway."</p><p>Noctis nods encouragingly, willing them to lock eyes. "Go on."</p><p>"It's why I was out in the snow. I felt like shit, it's been weeks since I was high last time, and I thought it would help."</p><p>"Help you achieve eternal slumber, sure," Noctis says with an impatient snap that makes Prompto shrink tenfold again, but he can’t really sugar coat it. The fact that he even had to save him from certain death both worries and scares him.</p><p><em> Weeks.</em> If that's a valid claim, Noctis can only speculate, but Prompto is an open book, wearing every emotion on his sleeve. He clears his throat and swallows repeatedly, his voice so teeny that Noctis has to lean in to even hear him.</p><p>"I've quit, I don't want to do it. I don't want to do any of it anymore."</p><p>Of course, Noctis always suspected that there’s more to Prompto than meets the eye, secrets he guards so very carefully and a wish to crawl out of the hole he’s fallen into. But while he lets it all sink in, Prompto fades to an even paler shade of white, incorrectly interpreting Noctis’s thoughtful silence as disdain, or even disgust.</p><p>"You don't have to believe me," he sniffles, letting his head loll to let the damp clusters of hair obscure his face and reduce some of the humiliation. </p><p>"I believe you," Noctis says finally, but it’s a bit vapid. Again, Prompto understands why — addicts lie, and he has done nothing to earn Officer Caelum’s trust, or affection.</p><p>(Still, he wants it to be true, desperately and genuinely, but this twisted schema of care is too alien to grasp, and in such a ruined world, surely he doesn't deserve the sympathy of the same force that condemns what he does and makes it such an ugly business.)</p><p>Does he?</p><p>The very thought arises such a paradox within him, that it hurts, and still, lately, all his words seem to be teeny paradoxes in themselves.</p><p>"Are you going to kick me out," he wonders out loud, forcing himself to remain stoic even though his voice trembles at the mere thought, despite the fact he was ready to leave earlier. But Noctis moves closer, daring to place a hand along his back, cringing at the feeling of his vertebrae through the sweater.</p><p>"No," he says, hopefully sounding just as sincere as he is. "God, no."</p><p>He's sat idly by, for far too long, denied feelings that seek to blossom, like tiny plants breaking through the concrete of the wasteland he navigates each evening, because of some line he can’t cross due to his profession — but he'll be damned if he'll let even a single more inch of Prompto crush into stardust.</p><p>"But —"</p><p>But?</p><p>Prompto stiffens, his heart sinking into his stomach, his hopes trampled anew. Illogical and unlikely as it may be, he expects anything <em>—</em> perhaps Noctis wants to take him up on his offer after all, wants to see him down on his knees and choke on his dick, like a <em> good boy</em>, in exchange for the hospitality Prompto has learnt to never take for granted by now.</p><p>He'll give it to him, if it truly is what he desires.</p><p>"You have to talk to me," Noctis says then, slaying Prompto's fears before they have a chance to grow into full-blown monsters. “I want to know about you.”</p><p>Prompto regards him wordlessly. His past is a frozen, untapped reservoir of toxic water and unsafe memories, so what could he possibly reveal? The very word frightens him.</p><p>
  <em> Talk.</em>
</p><p>He brushes his bangs back and traps a breath, wishing Noctis had just asked for a blowjob instead.</p>
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